The Journey of Mark Francini
by Denver Bloom
Summary: A garou journeys to seek aid for his tribe
1. Forward

** Forward **

First, I want to say that I've put a great deal of time into this project and that I am very proud of the results. 

Having said that, I realise that my skill as a writer is like a muscle untrained. I need to practice, build up my workmanship.   
To do that, I need critisism. Both honest and constructive. 

Perhaps I failed to introduce a character properly, or maybe the dialogue seemed a bit forced. Not to mention any potential   
spelling and grammatical errors I may have missed. 

This is where you come in. 

Sure, this sounds like the makings of a great story, but if you see something that can be improved, I would hope you won't   
shy away from showing me. 

Now, as to the story, this takes place in a world much like our own, save for a few differences. For one, underneath the   
veneer lies a darker, less pleasant reality of corruption and greed. Yes, our own world is like that, but here, it is even   
more so. And then there is the supernatural. The werewolves mages, and vampires that share the world along with a host   
of other mystical creatures. 

This story also is a reflection of events that take place in New Bremen, a city in the middle of Georgia. New Bremen is   
the focus of the chat found at the web site **http://www.white-wolf.com** visited by hundreds of role-players every day. 

So, feel free to enjoy as I weave a tale that will enrichen your understanding of the World of Darkness. 

Feel free to comment, as well. 

**Jason Davis**


	2. A Barrel of Apples

** Chapter One   
A Barrel of Apples **

As he stepped off of the bus and took his first look at Cluster Springs, a once-booming coal mining town of Virginia, Mark Francini tasted the fresh small-town air for the first time. He had come here to locate the Sept of the Joined Waters, a place where people like Mark once gathered to protect the spiritual energy of the earth. A caern of mystical value. 

Mark was a garou, a galliard tale-singer of the Glasswalker tribe. A garou is what you or I might call a werewolf. You might have seen the movies, or the tabloid stories at your local supermarket, or even heard a few tales told around a campfire on a moonlit summer night. The image of a mindless monster with fangs and claws, a solitary beast cursed to wander the night may come readily to mind, bringing shrieks of terror like all good horror stories should. 

Garou aren't like those lone monsters, however. In fact, garou are a deeply social people, with a rich culture and history. They've been around for thousands of years, perhaps more, serving their goddess Mother Gaia, the earth. Several tribes make up the garou, each one with a unique attitude and vision on how to protect the world and it's inhabitants from the evils that threaten to engulf them. Creatures of the maddened Wyrm, the insane primordial god, and those that serve him. Including the Fallen Garou known as the Black Spiral Dancers, one of the Wyrm's most loyal servants. 

They only thing that agreed with the horror films was that they could grow into 9 feet tall creatures at will; creatures that were a mixture of man and wolf. And of spirit. 

The powerful looking man with the brown, short curly hair, large hands, and deep blue eyes gazed upon the small town. He was a man of twenty-seven, comfortably dressed in a plaid cotton shirt and dark denim jeans not missing the usual casual suits he is usually seen in. He seemed like he could be at home wherever he went. Even the hint of the Rage common to all garou appeared hidden safely away beneath the friendly face of the galliard. 

The quiet main street held only a glimmer of the activity it once was host to, as a few lights acted as beacons to wandering strangers, as the late evening began to make quiet shadows grow with a patient stride. There were a few old buildings lining the street, many bearing signs of the modernization that had occured in the last fifty years, allowing such basic ammenities as lights, heat... and even the fax machine. 

Progress has not forgotten Cluster Springs, even if the rest of the world has. 

Mark considered how he was going to locate the old sept. There wasn't much to go on, and it was a good bet that the sept had gone forgotten over the years. Left to the winds and ashes just as this town had been. Still, even a forgotten sept leaves it's clawmarks. 

With a few hours to kill before nightfall, Mark decided to settle in, get aquainted and make plans to explore the town in the morning. 

He walked toward one of the hotels, hoping that the sign wasn't out of date. In small towns, change seems to take place slowly, and is often a sign of the community's sense of humor. Not that he objected. Just that it could be very inconvenient at times. 

"Hey!" 

A voice called out, and Mark turned his head, locating the source of the summons. The only thing he could see was an old woman, sitting on a grocer's porch, waving him over with a paper fan she kept in her hand like some clutched treasure. 

"Say, boy. Look like you could use some directions, am I right?" 

Mark nodded to the crone, her smile widening in his affirmation, "that I am, that I am. Are you offering any that I could use?" 

The woman shifted in her seat, as if to get out a cramp from sitting for so long, "well, now, what sort of guidance would please you, young feller?" 

Mark considered his approach, not wanting to bring out any undue attention. He walked over and leaned up against the post, assessing the woman. She had the requisite grey hair that denotes age, and wisdom. Her eyes were bright, a testament to her sharpness and perhaps a spot of wit as well. He knew that he could warm up to this woman rather quickly and took an apple from a barrel, handing her a dollar. 

"I'm a traveller, from the city. I'm searching for legends, whispers, of ghosts and the like. I heard that Cluster Springs had it's share at one time." 

The woman chuckled with the sound of a merry cackle, giving a nod to the man in her company, brushing aside the money, "all the old towns have 'em boy. And you can forget the apples, they's free. Ain't much more than drawings for the hungry types. The real merchandise is inside." 

"So you know of a few old tales," he suggested. 

She leaned back and seemed to fall into a trance, humming softly to herself, "old tales, not many folks come looking for that sort of thing any more. Nope, not many." 

"That is a shame, old woman," Mark apologised, "the old stories can light up many cold nights, with the right speaker at the helm." 

The woman looked up at him and smiled, showing a few gaps among her teeth, "call me Clara, most folks here do. Good thing it happens to be m' name, heh?" 

"I am Mark Francini, miss Clara. A pleasure to meet such a cunnning soul." 

"Mark Francini, eh? Sounds eye-tal-yon, I reckon. So, any particular tales you're seeking?" 

Mark nodded, pulling himself closer, and leveling himself evenly with her, "yes ma'am. Looking for one in particular, and others as well. Ever hear of a man going by the name of Iron? John Iron?" 

Her composure changed, and he knew that the name was known to her, and he watched her take him in completely now, as if there was something she was looking for. He realised that John's tales may have left a much more lasting impression around here even after nearly a century and a half. 

"Old John, biggest galoot I think this town ever saw, when this was almost a city back in the old days. Before the Depression, and before the mines closed," she sighed and continued, "word was, he had a tongue on him, used both for the drink and the dame. Both got him into trouble at times. Still, he was a good soul, loved his friends well. He had a temper though, that made him a real coot to those who sparked it." 

Mark recognised that sort, especially in himself, "I have heard that he helped when a fire took hold of this area." 

"Mark m'boy. Them's only the small stuff. He done more'n that, I reckon. Much more," her eyes gleamed and Mark realised that she may have had the silver tongue about her as well. 

"I'd be happy to hear any tales you can offer, just name your price. Plus, if you happen to know how to travel these woods, I'd be most grateful." 

She shook her head and clucked her tongue, "boy, there's places some city folks just don't belong, and I tell you that them woods is one of them. Still, you have the look of a man that has the resolve to walk right into hell, I reckon. If you want yerself a guide to the woods, you'll need Cool Willie. He's rare much of the time, but the tavern sees him most nights when bones feel the winter's wind coming. He's the one t' ask." 

Mark accepted the woman's advice and stood up, "I'm heading in to the tavern then. But you can be sure I'll be by to hear your tales." 

He took another apple and tossed it upwards with a smile catching it with a playful snap, "maybe I could share a tale or two in return, grandmother." 

He knew she'd have to be of the Bone Gnawers, one of the other tribes of the garou, or linked to them. Her knowing chuckle confirmed that in no time at all, "a son of the city calling me such a dear. I reckon we're both in for a treat, boy." 

He liked her well enough, but remembered the losses back home, and the rumors that the Bone Gnawer tribe may have conspired with the invading Ratkin, a people that like the garou, had a deep connection to Mother Earth.. Along with a long-standing grudge with the garou since they had presumably died out during the War of Rage, thousands of years ago. Everyone knew that the Gnawers had a fondness for rats, and many suspect they have been working with these Ratkin. 

He may like this woman, but he knew better than to let personal feelings endanger his own tribe. 

He left her sitting on the porch with a friendly wave and walked toward the tavern hoping that Willie would be there. He also hoped he might be another garou, perhaps even a Glasswalker. He could only hope. 

And sometimes hope is good enough. 


	3. A Cool Guide

** Chapter Two   
A Cool Guide **

The sun filtered inside the small room, a ray of light danced upon the bed, tickling Mark's face. He awoke, wondering where the noise of morning traffic went, before he remembered he was far from the din of the city. Far away from the troubles of New Bremen. 

Sitting up, he ran a broad hand through his brown locks, recalling the disappointment that Cool Willie had not shown up the night before. He had waited quite a while giving up only when the tavern had to close. He noticed that the owner's daughter looking at him as he headed to the hotel. Usually, fair maids tried to avoid his gaze, but this one met it with a certain fearlessness. 

Pulling aside the sheets, he got up and washed his face in the bathroom sink, putting the night's sleep out of his head. Slipping on a shirt and shoes, and checking that he had everything he needed, he stepped outside, and headed downstairs, the soft creaking of the wooden boards barely disturbing the cold morning air. 

"Morning," he greeted, acknowledging the nod of the attendant as he decended the stairs. He accepted the breakfast that was displayed in the eating room, noting with great relief that there weren't other boarders present. 

The hotel was a rustic old building from the early mining era, converted from a public dining hall around the early nineteen-twenties. There were several antique photographs lining the walls depicting faces long since faded into history. Smiling faces that knew the harshness of the mines yet had the spirit of community bringing them together, even when poverty was all they could afford. If any of these faces were of John Iron, it was hard to tell. But there was no doubt in Mark's mind that this was the sort of life John enjoyed. Hard, yet rewarding. 

"They're all at the plant." 

"Excuse me?" Mark addressed the hotel manager, shaken from his thoughts, "the plant?" 

"Most young folks here work at the packing plant about ten miles south of here. Been that way since the mines closed." 

He remembered Clara saying something about that, "why did they close the mines?" 

The manager shrugged, "after the big war, there was a push for cleaner fuel. Interest in coal pretty much died out. Over half the town left to find jobs in the cities, like Richmond." 

Mark mused on this for a bit as he ate his breakfast. While a cleaner fuel should have been a good thing for Gaia, the loss of jobs can be a means for the Wyrm to win more victims. An interesting and worrisome trade-off. Maybe Clara could shed some light on the events back then. 

Just as he made this resolution, he felt the room get colder, and looked to the doorway to see a man walk in, kicking off the dust off of his boots. The man looked like a cross between a Native American and a con man. A rather successful one. 

"I thought I'd find you here," he spoke glancing over at Mark, "Clara said you was looking for me." 

"Clara mentioned a that Cool Willie could show me around the woods. That would be you?" 

He nodded affirmatively and opened the door, inviting him to follow, "time's wasting then, city boy. Let's hit them trees." 

Mark stood, grabbed his pack and followed, watching the man as he was led down Main street toward a side road that lead further away from the buildings and homes. He could tell that he wasn't Indian, just dressed in chaps and leather. He was of European lineage, that was for sure, possibly from Norway or thereabouts. His dusty hair and reddened cheeks definately had a mark of the saxon blood in him. 

What he didn't have was any pedigree that Mark could tell. 

"You look English, but you dress like a redskin, quite an unusal amalgam," he commented, keeping just behind the man. 

Without looking back, he grunted understanding, "I can see you're more from the Mediteranian, possibly Greek or Caledonian. Guess we both have the same broken chain in our blood." 

Mark began to understand, pleased to have found a relation, "then you're a city boy too, I take it?" 

Willie's nod was all he needed. They kept silent for the next half hour as they walked deeper into the woods, following trail markers only the enigmatic guide seemed to recognise. Soon, however, he called for a stop holding up a hand as they neared a open area. Mark could see a spring, or what seemed to be one in the distant past. 

"Joined Waters," he whispered. 

He looked at Willie as the man began to explain, "there is another reason the jobs dried up more'n fifty years ago. Hope you got a strong stomach, Mister Francini." 

Mark swallowed once and nodded, wondering just what lay ahead, his resolve urging him forward. As Willie stepped aside, he moved past, getting a full view of the area and he gasped in shock. The land was just rotted. 

The uneven ground was littered with stones, many covered with a light blue mosslike growth that indicated the sickness that had rooted itself in the land. The stones themselves were placed in various patterns, suggesting ritual and ceremony, something that all garou are familiar with. Each stone, hewn with the decay of time, were placed with a reverence to Gaia, from which all life springs. Faint scratches could still be seen on a few, obviously placed there by the Theurge-moons, the garou most in tune with the spirits. 

"What caused this," he stammered. 

"Many things, happening all at once. Basically, the mines were affecting the land, making this place weaker with each day. Then came the Fallen Ones, followed soon after by other things. We fought hard, but in the end, we had begun to realise that there wasn't much left to fight for. So we up and left." 

He joined Mark onto the sickened earth, "we stopped the mines ourselves, us 'walkers. Just bought up all the financial interests and shut it down. It wasn't an easy decision to make, cost lots of people their jobs, but Gaia comes first. She always will." 

Mark agreed, dropping into a crouch to touch the land with his hands, "is she ever coming back?" 

The unresolved sigh told him of the uncertainty in the guide's voice, "we just don't know." 

Rising, Mark began to explore the area, touching stones and stumps, trying to feel a glimmer of the rich history that they used to carry. Nothing. He couldn't get a thing out of the sickly land. Still, he had to believe that something from the past had managed to survive. Something had to have been preserved. 

Willie seened to read his mind, "The cave is over there. There's not much, but a few glyphs are still there. Some hints of the tales your moons have sung here. I'll wait here, until you're finished." 

Following the direction implied, Mark hopped over a jutting rock and walked into the cave, pulling out his light to see the interior of what must have been a fantastic caern. He looked for the glyphs promised and was shocked. If this was just a few hints, he couldn't begin to imagine what was lost over the years. There was an entire wall full of tales that he had no idea existed. Tales of heroism and loss. Victory and shame. Tales of the Americas and even tales as far back as the War of Rage. 

Then he saw it. On the next wall. There was something hinting about a battle with the Ratkin. A battle of cunning, and a sound victory. But his hopes were quickly dashed. Time had faded much of the tale. There was nothing about how they won, and no clue as to where this battle took place. No sept that he could seek for the answers he needed. 

"Only the ancestors know. But there's nothing here, not today. Not in this part of the world." 

After committing a few of the remaining tales to memory, he stepped back out into the pale sunlight that shown just overhead. He shook his head to Willie, indicating the failure he found inside. 

"Must have been important, wasn't it?" 

Mark nodded and shrugged in defeat, "I was hoping to find some wisdom, some way to fight the people of the Rat. All I got was just an old tale lost to time. I was hoping..." 

Willie looked at the man strangely, as if he didn't know what Mark was after. After taking a breath, Mark told him what he could. Of the loss of the Caern in New Bremen, and even worse, of the loss of the leadership to the 'walker tribes, "we need real leaders. Men with the conviction to be strong for the tribe. Men of Renown. I don't see how a bunch of cliath are going to do any good." 

"Mark, I can't say much 'bout no rats, but I can set in motion that leadership you ask for. I know a few that can be trusted to make the usual quiet inquiries, see what turns up. I won't tell Clara, you have my word. No reason to risk anything on something this delicate. Like you said, best to keep this in the family." 

"My thanks. I just hope we can get a strong leader soon. I fear that we will be at each others throats like untrained cubs if we don't." 

Willie promised to do what he could in the fastest speed possible as they returned to the town. The sun had dropped level with the treetops by the time neared the hotel. 

"Before you go, I got to ask. You know if there are any nearby that could teach me the Moot Rite?" 

Mark wasn't the least bit surprised as Willie pointed back to the grocer's shop, "Clara isn't just 'bout tales, mister. She knows a fair 'mount of practices. Talk to her and I'm sure she'll help you out." 

Willie walked off, making speed to keep his promise as Mark returned to the rented room, deciding that the best time to go see the old woman was after the sun fell. Night time in a small town had it's own magic. A perfect time for tales and the sharing of magic. 

If only he learned of some way to defeat the Ratkin. 

"There's still hope, there always is," he muttered as he let sleep close his tired eyes. 


	4. Wisdom in the Forest

**Wisdom in the Forest**

The night felt cool on his brown fur, and with each passing step, he reveled in the freedom that his wolf form allowed him. Mark believed that he could go on forever, his tongue moist from the heart-pounding pace. Amazingly, the grey wolf that was Clara kept one step ahead of him, proving that even with age, a garou can still do the incredible. Her nimble steps through the thicket would make even the most practiced sprinter envious. Just as Mark was. 

Finally, she slowed as they neared a clear stream, one of the many creeks near the small town. Virginia was an amazing place, and as they shared a drink, Mark marvelled at the beauty of Gaia. The sky was clear and the air was clean, with only a single owl in the distance breaking the silence with it's call. The water was the freshest he had ever tasted, something you don't get from tapwater or in the supermarket. It appeared that even Clara agreed with his opinion. 

"Nothing like this in city," she spoke, the simple words of the wolf saying more than enough. 

Mark and Clara rested after spending the past few days together, touring the lush Virginia forests. They enjoyed a good howl with some other galliards from a passing pack, even swapping tales. Mark actually seemed to forget the troubles back home. It was beginning to feel a lot like a vacation. 

But like all vacations, this one had to end sometime. He soon sobered and let out a deep sigh. 

"Friend have sad thoughts?" 

He nodded, dropping his tail in mild submission, "life not good for us,. worse when our yesterdays return to bite." He knew that the War that ended thousands of years ago was going to be a constant thorn in the garou's side, especially with the war against the Wyrm so close to a final battle. 

Clara's form shifted, the fine crackling sound of bone and flesh changing with smooth practice, until she once again wore the form of the old woman. She sat on a rock, nodding to Mark, inviting him to do the same. He nodded and took on human form as well, sitting across from her watching the old woman's eyes sparkle in the moonlight. 

"Child, the world that was can't be changed. We only move forward, not backwards. Revenge don't change the past, only deepens it. Old wounds might heal faster if everyone learned that." 

Mark wondered if the woman had any idea what was going on back home, but kept his peace, letting her continue. 

"Once in a while, a rare child of Mother Earth does learn this, and does some good instead of harm. I would love to pretend lots of things didn't happen, that I didn't make mistakes, but that ain't gonna change. All I can do is look ahead and ask what I can do to make my few remaining days worth being proud of." 

He nodded, "what if others refuse to..." 

She cut him off, "can you ask the sun to stop rising? Or stop a river from flooding? No, child, and you can't make others learn until they are ready. Many never will be. Change only the things you can boy, and accept what you can't." 

"And learn to know the difference," he finished, "I know that prayer. And now I think I begin to understand." 

The old woman's wrinkles shifted into a warm smile and she cupped the side of his face in her old worn hand, carressing him gently. The moment was a wordless acknowledgement of a freindship that had developed between them. A friendship greater than anything Mark had ever known. Ths went beyond learning about garou rituals. They had bonded. When she pulled away, he seemed disappointed that the limits of flesh could not better express the feelings he had now. 

"Now, lissen up lad. You asked for a story about John Iron, and you agreed to pay any price. Very well, here's my price." 

"A long time ago, when I was as young, I came across a blackened field. Within the field, there lay a man, his skin seemed blistered and red, peeling off like an onion. I came to him and offered him some water, but as to the rest of his ills, I could offer no relief. He wasn't going to live to see another sunrise. 

"For an hour I held him, breathing hard, his wounds were beyond our gifts to heal, and we both knew he was about to die. He looked me in the eyes, and made me promise to return something to his people that was lost that day. 

"I searched a long time, but I couldn't find it. Until about ten years ago. I was no longer the young woman, and I was unable to go after it. But you aren't an old woman. You can get it and keep my promise. Can you do that, boy? Do you think you can help keep an old woman's word?" 

Mark understood what she was asking, and nodded, "as soon as I can, I will find this lost thing for you. And when I deliver it, I will tell them your tale. This I swear." 

She reached into a bag sitting at her side and pulled out some rolled up papers, handing them to him, "everything I could gather, all that I learned is in here. Including where it was last. Keep my word, boy. It means a lot to me." 

He accepted the papers and nodded. 

"I've taught you a lot these past days, and you were a mighty good learner. Now it's time to sit back and let this old woman tell you 'bout John Iron, the miner that could shake the mountains," and she began her tale. 


End file.
